His patch covered the warehouse area of Wapping. Out of the corner of my eye I caught Eve’s face. Her eyes were alight and her teeth were bared.
“Know him?” I asked her.
“I know of him. A name that comes up a lot in conversation. But I’ve never been able to use it in a story. He’s got expensive lawyers.”
I left it at that. We drank more tea, and Mary told us of dark rooms where poker was played, drinking dens that were open all hours, dog races where both dogs and punters were drugged, and pubs where you could arrange for a business rival or straying spouse to be fixed – permanently if required – for less than fifty quid. Eve wrote and wrote and when we emerged Soho was dipped in a golden glow from the last of the sun, and Mama Mary had broken off twice to welcome her first guests of the day to the pleasure palace: men dropping by on their way home from work.
“I need a drink,” Eve said as we stumbled into the light.
“As long as it’s not tea.”
“Never. I will never drink another cup of tea.”
“I know a place.” I checked my watch. “And they’re open in ten minutes.”
I steered her through Soho noting the subtle changes that were taking place.
Lights coming on in dark doorways, bouncers rolling their shoulders, heavily made-up girls beginning their patrols. The streets were filling with men with hats pulled down despite the early summer warmth. As we walked, we touched occasionally; I even held her arm from time to time to see her across a road or past a pushy procurer. She didn’t seem to mind.
We joined a small queue outside the Dog and Duck in Greek Street. Neither of us looked at each other, not wishing to advertise our need. At exactly six o’clock the bolts rattled; the door gaped open and a rush of stale air wafted over us. I got us drinks and led the way upstairs. We were the only customers in the small dark room. It smelled of two hundred years of beer and smoke.
“Cheers!” I raised my pint glass.
She smiled and clinked her vodka and lemonade. “Cheers, Danny. Thank you. I liked Mary.”
“She’s a tough little cookie, but honest. As honest as a madam can be, I suppose.”
“She seems to like you.”
“I told you, we helped each other.”
“But I’m not sure if I got anything that will make my readers sit up and buy more papers.” She took out her notebook – a black leather-bound pad that fitted into her raincoat pocket. She flicked through it, frowning. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be ungrateful. It’s just I need more…”
“… excitement? Look, if you’re up to it, we could grab a bite and then try one of the clubs or illegal bars. I think I can get us in.”
She shook her head, and I felt curiously let down at the prospect of saying goodnight.
“I can make something of it.” She raised her hand and drew a headline in the air. “Illicit gambling den! All- night bars of Soho! But it’s been done. And everybody knows it goes on. I need action. Bring me the head of a gangster,” she challenged. “Crime boss captured in shoot-out. That’s what makes the news.”
“If only we had Prohibition.” I sat back and examined her, trying to see the situation dispassionately, as if what I was about to suggest was simply business. I digested her quirky features – nose too long, eyes too big and mouth too full. Some women – not always the prettiest – set your blood racing. You want to do foolish things in front of them to keep their interest: cartwheels, picking fights with strangers, robbing a jewellery store. Eve had that quality.
I wanted to impress her, to keep her near me.
Yet I knew nothing about this woman. I looked down at my beer and tried to picture her climbing a wall, running for cover, perhaps swimming for her life. I thought of the agents I’d worked with – women so brave and selfless it made you feel namby-pamby. Was she up to their mark? No one ever knows until they’re tested. And by then it’s too late.
But Eve Copeland seemed to have fire in her belly. Look what she had achieved.
And the way she’d sought me out. It said a lot about her determination. I lifted my gaze again into her questioning eyes. Unless I had failed to get the measure of her, I’d seen this sort of steel in only a few people in my life.
“Are you scared of water?” I asked.
“I’m a fish. You should see me at the Lido.”
“I’d like to.’ I smiled at the thought. “OK in boats?”
“Big ones or little ones?”
“Little to start with. Can you take a risk?”
“Life’s a risk. What is it?!”
“What I’m about to propose is dangerous. You could get hurt… badly. Depends what we run into. Who we run into.”
“Are you going to tell me before I start screaming?”
“There’s going to be a raid. On a warehouse.”
She was sitting forward now, her dark eyes gleaming. “That’s more like it.” She looked round the empty bar and lowered her voice theatrically. “Tell me more.”
“Bales of silk. Mary described the end result. We’ll have a ringside seat at the start. The warehouse owner’s being robbed blind. Tomorrow there’s a fresh shipment in from Holland on the goods ship Clever Girl. I’m going to try to stop them.”
“Count me in!”
“There’s one thing. Mary mentioned a name. It shook you. Pauli Gambatti. I think he’s behind this. If he is, he won’t be happy. In fact he’ll go berserk. And he’ll know you were on the inside if you write the story. Still want in?”
She handled it well, barely blinked. But I could see her pupils dilate. She forced a smile.
“I’m in! Look, I’m starving. One more of these and I’ll fall over. How about an early dinner? My treat. It’s on the paper. You can tell me all about it.”
She knew an Italian restaurant just off High Holborn. It was one more Italian than I’d ever been in, if you don’t count Glasgow chippies. She told me it had been shut for much of the war after Churchill had ordered the internment of “enemy aliens”. The aliens seemed pleased to see her. I just hoped they harboured no hard feelings as they stirred their pots. We took a corner table, and I had to ask the stupid question: “Do you come here with your boyfriend?”
She looked amused. “That’s very personal.”
“You’re joining my gang. I need to know a bit about you.” It was only half a lie.
“No boyfriend. Too busy. And even if I had the time, not enough good men to go around. Single men. Why aren’t you married?”
Back to her defensive tricks again. “I’ve been busy too.” I tapped my skull.
“Before the war.”
“There were girls.” I shrugged, and thought of the sparky mill lassies in Kilpatrick on a Saturday night, mad for dancing, mad for men. Get a man, get pregnant, get married, get old. Not like the cerebral ones I met at university who were more interested in the meaning of life than living it. “And you?” I asked.
She looked distant for a moment, and I was about to change the subject. “There was a boy. I don’t know what happened to him.” She shook her head.
“Sorry. Any sisters? Brothers?”
“Someone you can invite to the funeral?” she parried.
“It’s not going to be that risky.”
“Shame.” She relented. “No, no family. Only child. Mum and dad both gone.” Her jaw tightened and for a second, I glimpsed a different Eve Copeland. Then the barrier came back up. She picked up her fork and jabbed the back of my hand, hard enough to leave a mark. “This really is a job interview, isn’t it? Next it’ll be hobbies and interests. Then why do I want this job and what my qualifications are, and…”
“OK! Enough! I give in.” I laughed and rubbed my hand.
We broke off the swordplay and ordered some lasagne and a glass each of red wine. I took her lead on the
